Danielle Steel - Zoya

“Our Christmas is later than yours. It's on January sixth.”

“The Feast of Kings.”

“There are beautiful processions all over Russia. Or there were. I suppose we'll be going to the Russian church here.” In a way, she was looking forward to it, and in another way she knew it would be depressing. All those lost souls, standing together in the candlelight, remembering a lost world. She wasn't sure she could bear it, but she knew that her grandmother would insist that they go. There would certainly be no gifts this year. There wasn't a spare penny with which to buy them.

But when Christmas actually came, Antoine surprised her. He had bought her a warm scarf and a pair of warm gloves, and a tiny, tiny bottle of the perfume she had casually mentioned to him once. It was the perfume that touched her heart and brought tears to her eyes. It was “Lilas,” which Mashka had so loved and had given her months before. She took the top off the flacon, and the sweet smell brought back the touch and feel and smell of all that she loved, and her beloved Mashka. There were tears rolling slowly down her cheeks as she looked at him, and without thinking, with childlike grace, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was a sisterly kiss, but his whole body trembled to feel her near him. And Evgenia looked on with tears in her own eyes. He was not what she would have wished for Zoya once upon a time, but he was a decent, hardworking man, and she knew he would take good care of Zoya. He had spoken to her only the day before, and she had given him her blessing. She was feeling weaker day by day, and she was terrified that if she died there would be no one to take care of Zoya. She had to marry him now, for her grandmother's peace of mind. But Zoya had no idea what they had planned, as she thanked him warmly for the perfume. He had given her grandmother an embroidered shawl and a book of Russian poems. And Zoya was embarrassed that all they had bought him was a clean notebook and a book about Russia.

She had found it at a bookseller's on the Quai d'Or-say, at an ugly little stand, but it was in French, and she thought he might like it. But not nearly as much as she liked the perfume.

Her grandmother quietly slipped away with her gifts, and softly closed her bedroom door, silently wishing him success, and praying that Zoya would be wise and accept him.

“You must have spent every penny you had” she chided him as she prodded the fire with a long metal poker and Sava wagged her tail as she watched her. ‘That was foolish, but kind, Antoine. Thank you so much. I will use the perfume for special occasions.” She had already decided to wear it two weeks later on Russian Christmas. She didn't want to waste it before that.

He sat down in the chair across from hers and took a breath, trying to muster up his courage. He was thirteen years older than she, but he had never been so frightened in his life. Even Verdun had been less terrifying than facing Zoya.

“I wanted to talk to you about a special occasion, Zoya. Now that you mention it.” He could feel his palms grow damp as she watched him strangely.

“What does that mean?”

“It means …” He could feel his heart pound. “It means … I love you.” She could hardly hear the words, but she stared at him in amazement.

“You what? ”

“I love you. I've loved you since the day I arrived here. Somehow, I thought that you suspected.”

“Why would I ever suspect that?” She looked both startled and angry. He had spoiled everything. How could they be friends now if he was going to be so stupid. “You don't even know me!”

“We've lived together for two months. That's long enough. It wouldn't even have to be any different than this. We could stay here, except that you would sleep in my room.”

“How lovely.” She stood up and paced the room. “A mere change of rooms, and we go on just as we are. How can you even suggest it? We're all starving, none of us has a sou, and you want to get married. Why? Why? I don't love you, I don't even know you, nor you me. … Antoine, we are strangers!”

“We're not strangers, we're friends. And some of the best marriages start that way.”

“I don't believe that. I want to be in love with the man I marry, madly, passionately, totally. I want it to be wonderful and romantic.”

He looked so sad as she shouted at him, but she was shouting more at the fates that had put them there, than at the man who had bought her her favorite perfume.

“Your grandmother thinks we could be very happy.” But it was the worst thing he could have said, as she strode around the room again in barely controllable fury.

“Marry my grandmother then! I don't want to get married! Not now! Everything around us is sick and cold and dying. Everyone is starving and poor and miserable. What a way to start a life!”

“What you're really saying is that you don't love me.” He sat down quietly, willing to accept even that. And suddenly his own quiet actions subdued her. She sat down facing him and took his hands in her own warm ones.

“No, I don't. But I like you. I thought you were my friend. I really never thought there was anything else behind it. Not seriously anyway. You never said …” Her eyes filled with tears.

“I was afraid to. Will you think about it, Zoya?”

But she shook her head sadly. “Antoine, I couldn't do it. It wouldn't be fair to either of us. We both deserve more than this.” She glanced around them, and then back into his eyes. “And if we loved each other, even this wouldn't matter. But it does. I just don't love you.”

“You could try.” He looked so young, despite his injuries and his losses.

“No, I couldn't. I'm so sorry …” She left the room then, and quietly closed the door to her own room, leaving the perfume and the scarf and gloves on the table. He looked around him then, and turned off the lights and went back to his bedroom. Perhaps she would change her mind. Perhaps her grandmother could convince her. She had thought it such a sensible plan. But he knew it was born not of love, but desperation.

“Zoya?” Her grandmother was watching her from their bed, as she undressed, facing the garden. Evgenia couldn't see her face, but she suspected instinctively that she was crying. And as Zoya turned around in her nightgown, her green eyes were blazing. “Why did you do it, Grandmama? Why did you encourage him to do that? It was cruel to both of us.” She thought of the pain in Antoine's eyes and she felt terrible. But not terrible enough to marry him out of pity. She had to think of herself too. And she knew she didn't love him.

“It's not cruel. It's sensible. You must marry someone, and he'll take care of you. He's a teacher, he's respectable, and he loves you.”

“I don't love him.”

“You're a child. You don't know what you want.” She suspected also that Zoya was still dreaming of Clayton, a man more than twice her age, from whom she hadn't heard since November.

“I want to love the man I marry, Grandmama. Is that so much to ask?” Tears rolled down her cheeks, as she sank into the room's only chair and clutched Sava.

“Normally, no, it's not. But in these circumstances, it is. You have to be sensible. I'm old, I'm sick. What are you going to do when I die? Stay here alone and go on dancing? You'll become old and hard and bitter. Stop this nonsense now. Accept him, and make yourself learn to love him.”

“Grandmama! How can you say that!”

“Because I've lived a long time. Long enough to know when to fight and when to give in, and when to make compromises with my heart. Don't you think I would like to see you married to a handsome prince, back in St. Petersburg, in a house like Fontanka? But there are no princes anymore, they're all driving taxis. Fontanka is gone, Russia is gone. This is all there is, Zoya, perhaps forever. You must make adjustments. I won't leave you alone. I want to know you'll be well cared for.”